When a cold is not just a cold

So, I have spent the last 5 days with a horrible, nasty, no good, very bad cold. It started last Wednesday night, feeling a bit like a raspy throat, maybe a thickness in my sinuses. But by Thursday morning, it had picked up it’s pace, and was well under way. Unfortunately, Thursday was Naurez, the Kazakh New Year and Spring Festival, the biggest event of the year, and likely the ONLY event of our stay, in the sense of the world outside the orphanage. So, I dragged myself out of bed, against my own better judgment and that of my husband. I really wanted to someday be able to tell my son about this, to tell him everything I could absorb about the country of his birth, his culture, his history. I pulled something on, tried to eat a bit, and out we went. My grand plan was to hang out at the ‘square’ where the festivities were taking place for a bit, and then return to the flat to rest while everyone else went to Hassim’s flat for lunch. This half worked.

We walked to the square in a stream of people, flowing in from every corner of town. As we approached the square, I could hear music and a giant inflatable stage came into view, complete with one of those blow up dancey guys that gyrate above a stream of air. It was a bit surreal. Along the back there was a row of yurts constructed and sponsored by various businesses and organizations. Zhana, our coordinator (interim) led us to the first one. Outside stood the head doctor from the orphanage, dressed head to toe in fur. Let’s call it mink for the sake of the story. It sure looked impressive. As we waited our turn, one of the women staffing the yurt handed me a bowl of something liquid. It was hot, white, had some brown round things about the size of small marbles floating in it, and tasted a little like chicken broth. Well, from the one sip I was willing to take that’s what it tasted like. I carried it around for a few minutes, and found a place to set it down when no one was looking. Given that it appeared they were dumping the contents out and reusing the bowls, I neither wanted the germs that might be in it, nor wanted to add mine.

When we entered the yurt, there was a huge spread of food on several tables, meant to replicate a traditional Kazakh feast for Naurez. The walls were hung with carpets and tapestries, and several of the orphanage workers were dressed in traditional Kazakh costumes. There was about 6 square feet of standing room, so we took a few pictures, looked around for a minute, and left. For just a moment I was able to imagine what life here must have been like only a hundred years ago, when the 3 Hordes roamed the Steppes, with their horses, their families, and their homes. That was worth getting out of bed for.

We continued to move down the row of Yurts, each slightly different, set up with costumed guards out front, dancing children, singing, and a ‘spring tree’, upon which people took turns tying colorful ribbons to the barren branches, along with a wish. I am sure you can all imagine what we wished for. We also watched some traditional games being played- relay races, tug-of-war, arm wrestling. Every time we tried to move on to the next thing, Jaden would complain that he didn’t feel like he had enough time to see everything. I knew how he felt. There were boys and girls doing traditional dances on the stage, a woman singing, and a man playing the dobro, the classic instrument of Kazakhstan, as well as much of Asia and the Middle East. I wished I could have seen this type of performance in a more intimate setting, but the people watching made it all worth it.

There were many, many women in fur- fur coats, fur hats, fur boots, you name it. It was the style du jour for the matronly set. The younger girls here are very interested in European fashion, but it definitely has it’s own twist. Galina, our translator, was wearing boots with a 4 inch stiletto heel. Mind you the square was covered in several inches of packed snow and ice. But the most interesting people watching came from the elderly people. Their faces were fascinating to me, their clothing representative of the changes they have seen in their lifetimes. Dental work here is rough. Gold teeth abound in those who can afford them, and for others, teeth are a luxury of the young. Most older people are missing many of their teeth, and you wonder how the few they have left, widely spaced as they are, can be of any use. The women often wore traditional headscarves, sometimes colorfully embroidered, sometimes under jacket hoods. They wore skirts and heavy shawls, and many walked stooped with the heaviness of the history they have witnessed in this land. Their faces are lined and weathered from years under the harsh sun here, and the old women walked arm in arm with daughters or grand-daughters. The men clustered together, sharing cigarettes and stories, laughing and drinking. I could have stayed and watched them all day. I tried to capture some of them on camera, but didn’t want to be overly invasive, and so mostly I have them only in my memory.

After we had seen most of what there was to see, suddenly (many things here happen suddenly) Zhana headed out to take care of some business and Galina and Shelly announced we were going to Shelly’s apartment. I thought I would walk along for a few minutes, and then head ‘home’ as it was only a couple of blocks away. I announced my plan part-way into the walk, and was very seriously told that I couldn’t walk home, it would be ‘too dangerous’. What? There were people everywhere, thousands of them. But Galina was emphatic in her insistence that ‘there were too many drunk men, and it wouldn’t be safe. We will call you a taxi.’ Huh. When we arrived at the apartment, we walked up 6 flights of stairs to the top floor. I thought when they said they would call a taxi it would be right away. And I was right, if ‘right away’ means 4 hours later. I laid down for a few minutes on the bed, really feeling I had been hit by a truck. But people kept popping in and out, and when everyone sat down to eat I felt I should make an effort. I sat with the group but could bring myself to eat the traditional dishes of horsemeat sausage and chopped fish salad (with bones mind you).

Vodka toasts were a main feature of the meal, pushed heavily by Zhana. They were very formal, going around the table, everyone expected to toast. Even Jaden decided to participate, asking me to speak for him: “I appreciate having this chance to have this experience, and to be able to adopt my brother here.” As it was unprompted, it was very sweet. Since Bruce was the only adult male at the table, I asked where the men were. This brought about much laughter, and only the mysterious answer ‘at home’. Yes, but WHY…. ? After the main part of the lunch, small bowls of nuts were brought out, and the chairs were pushed back for dancing. Hassim’s 6 year old daughter, Akbote (which means a baby white camel), put on her traditional costume and did some very smooth moves for a 6 year old. Then she changes costumes and did an Indian belly dance! Jaden was dazzled, as I have to say we all were. Then cake and ice cream and the omnipresent tea were brought out. Hassim’s step-mother was the hostess, and she did an Islamic blessing before we began dessert. We all cupped our hands in front of us, eyes closed while she spoke (well, I peeked). Then hands were brought to faces, together, and down in front of our chests. It struck me as pan-theologic really. (if that’s not a word, just go with it, OK? I am a little short on dictionaries and thesauruses over here). A gesture I have seen repeated many times, in synagogues, Buddhist temples, churches. I loved seeing that simple act repeated, in such a context as this.

Finally, finally, a taxi was called. You notice, I said called, not arrived. They said “10 minutes, taxi comes”. “Great,” I thought, I couldn’t wait to go to bed. “I’ll just put on my boots and coat and wait downstairs” I told them. “No, no,” I was assured it was ‘too dangerous.’ I waited. About 40 minutes later, we all headed downstairs. The children out front stared at us as we came out. The giggle and laugh when they see Bruce, Jaden and I. I can’t figure out what the thing is that the find so fascinating, but it’s definitely there. The taxi was waiting on the other side of the building. No one here seems to think twice about keeping a taxi waiting, for any length of time. We pile 5 of us into it, and came back to the flat. And except for a side trip to meet Habiba, our ‘official’ coordinator, it is here that I have been ever since.

Bruce and Jaden have started going to the orphanage once a day to visit with Tuma. I have started taking the antibiotics I requisitioned before we left, as this cold has turned into a sinus infection. They have gone for walks. I have tried to find alternatives for nose-blowing to the 220 grit that passes for toilet paper here. Our cook is wondering why we need to use so many paper napkins, I am sure. They are softer, but have all the absorbency of a piece of newsprint, so it’s a trade off recently. Bruce and Jaden found the outdoor market- yes, you read that right. They warn against ever eating fish here, and Bruce bought a pair of rubber waders for about $8 to use during mud season. I have mastered Sudoku, alternating between the couch and the bed. Central Asian viruses pack a mean wallop I have learned. I am determined to wrestle this one down before the week is out, but won’t make any promises before then. In the meantime, I will leave it to Bruce to describe how it is to spend time with our new son. Update coming soon. Next time you reach for a Kleenex, think of me….

PS- if you want to see more pictures related to any of this, check out the links to the albums on the right. Uploading photos via dial up is as ugly as it sounds, but we are doing our best to get what we can on there!